The man lurched forward in surprise as his blow foundered, and Fronto stepped neatly in from the side and drove his blade into the man’s neck just at the base, above the man’s tunic. It took some effort to haul the sword back out of the man as he collapsed, dead instantly, his spinal cord severed.
Fronto glanced around. There were a number of men nearby who presented ready targets and were not currently occupied by the legionaries, who were working their way efficiently toward the wagons.
He lunged for the nearest man, obviously one of the wealthier warriors, for he could afford a helmet and was fully dressed in good quality clothes. The bearded barbarian took a stance that surprised Fronto, reminding him more of the crouch of a gladiator circling his opponent than a Celtic warrior in the midst of a pitch battle.
“Oh, come on!”
He stabbed at the warrior with his gladius and the man desperately turned the blow aside with his large, unwieldy Celtic blade. Fronto readied himself for a counter-attack and stared in astonishment as the warrior turned and fled among his own men.
“What the hell is going on?” he asked of nobody in particular.
The situation here was rapidly coming under control. The Nervii who had attacked the column of carts seemed to have lost heart and, as Fronto casually dispatched another warrior, they broke and ran; not from the field, but to join their comrades who were pressing the legions. Fronto looked up at the man on the cart who was wielding his spear with great relief.
“I presume you can handle things now?”
“Yes sir.”
Fronto nodded.
“Get all the wagons marshalled here and as soon as each one’s in position, get the drivers and staff armed and in position to protect them from any other attack.”
The soldier saluted.
“Oh,” Fronto added as an afterthought, “and send someone back past the train to the Thirteenth and Fourteenth legions and tell them to pick up the pace. Tell them we’ve engaged the Belgae and we’re in the shit. They need to join the Twelfth on the right flank as soon as they’re here, alright?”
The man nodded and turned to his companions to begin calling out the orders.
Fronto nodded, satisfied with the situation at the rear, and located Lucretius and his standard bearer and cornicen.
“I think we’re probably done here. The rearguard will be here shortly and I doubt there’s any more enemy units lurking around the rear. We should get back to the Tenth.”
The centurion nodded and gestured at the Cornicen, who sounded the recall. Pausing only to dispatch the few surviving fallen Belgae, the Sixth Cohort rallied to the standard and formed into centuries. Lucretius gave further orders and the cohort turned and moved off at a fast march to rejoin the fighting on the left flank, with Fronto running alongside.
As they reached the rear ranks of the Tenth, Fronto was surprised to see Labienus and Brutus in conversation with Caesar. He growled under his breath.
“Lucretius, get to work.”
The centurion saluted and then filtered the Sixth Cohort back into the lines of defenders, bolstering the numbers, while Fronto marched irritably across to the group of officers.
“Problems?”
Caesar turned to him and blinked.
“Not problems, Fronto. All my senior officers are with the legions and I need to be apprised of the situation.”
Fronto growled.
“The situation is that we’re in the shit. Labienus is supposed to be commanding the Tenth while I was away, not reporting to his commander. The situation’s a bit perilous for wandering around the battlefield and passing the time of day.”
Caesar glared at him and ground his teeth but before he could speak, Fronto pointed back in the direction from whence the general had come.
“The Twelfth are seriously outnumbered, hard pressed, and have no support. In that position, morale plays as much a part as strength, numbers, or discipline. How much of a morale boost do you think it gave them to see their commander desert them and wander off across the battlefield to go chat to another legion?”
Caesar’s opening mouth closed again. For a moment he looked astonished, and slowly his anger was replaced by grudging acceptance.
“What do you suggest, Fronto?”
“If you hold any hope of pulling our arses out of the fire today, we need the Twelfth to hold until the relief arrives. It might do them some good if all their officers pitched in and helped. In fact, we’ve got enough officers here, really. I could use Labienus, but Brutus might be of use over there.”
Caesar nodded slowly.
“I agree, yes. A show of bravery and ‘mucking in’ from the officer corps. Come, Brutus.”
With the briefest of nods at Fronto, the general and his young companion strode back across the battlefield towards the beleaguered Twelfth Legion. The legate watched them go and then turned back to Labienus and rolled his eyes.
“Shall we get back to the real work?”
Labienus smiled at him.
“Only you could get away with scolding your commanding officer like a naughty child, Fronto. You do make me laugh sometimes.”
* * * * *
Paetus stared at the man in front of him. He’d known Fronto for years and the legate hadn’t even recognised him. Oh, certainly he was wearing Belgic gear and he’d grown a beard, but surely that couldn’t disguise him that easily.
The plan had failed. That was clear from the moment the two ambushing units of Nervii had left the woods. The wagons had rolled into view and the warriors had charged, but there was no mounted command unit, just the rear end of the Twelfth Legion and then the carts. The bastard had changed the marching order. How did he know?
It hadn’t stopped the Nervii and their allies anyway. They’d missed the opportunity of removing the commanders but, given the amount of preparation that had gone into this attack and the level to which they and their allies had now committed themselves, there was no point in changing plans or calling off the attack. They outnumbered Caesar’s army and had the advantages of surprise and preparation. They could win this anyway, without taking down the staff.
The disappointment to Paetus was crushing. Now he would have to stay through the entire battle to make sure that Caesar did not escape alive. Tricky, though, as it was possible that, even when the Nervii won, they would take issue with Paetus for the failure of his plan. Still, he could worry about that when it happened. Right now, he had other issues…
Fronto.
The legate of the Tenth faced him with gladius and shield like a true soldier of Rome, unstoppable and efficient. Paetus felt the panic rise in his throat. Oh, he’d trained as a soldier, of course, but for many years now his days and nights were a constant flow of comfortable chairs, scrawling figures on wax tablets, and planning from behind a desk. It had been years since he’d even drawn his sword and the recent exercise he’d undergone couldn’t replace the fighting skills and instinct he’d long-since lost.
He dropped into what he hoped was a combative stance. Since Fronto hadn’t recognised him, he might get away with this. Hell, he really didn’t want to kill Fronto, even if he thought for even a minute that he could. Fronto was one of very few people in Caesar’s army who actually seemed to care.
The legate grinned at him and the smile was horrible. Paetus could suddenly understand how Fronto achieved his reputation and respect. It was a wonder the enemy didn’t flee just at his scowl.
In a blur of movement, the legate lunged at him. It was like watching a snake uncoil, he was so damned fast. In a desperate move, Paetus swung his sword at Fronto’s attack and managed by some miracle of luck to knock the blade away. He stared for a moment at the legate and, turning, ran like a cowardly child from a bully, back to the west.
Around him, several other Nervian warriors were now fleeing the scene, though they were doing so with determined looks and there was evidently no fear or cowardice involved as they ran to regroup with their countrymen attacking the legions. Pae
tus, unnoticed among their number, ran on and, as the warriors turned and joined the Atrebates who were busy swarming over the defences of the Ninth and Tenth, the frightened prefect continued on past them and into the woods from where the attack had been launched.
* * * * *
Crispus pushed his way through the lines of his men, the noise around him deafening as the Eleventh fought for their lives among a press of screaming, bloodthirsty warriors. The legate, educated and bright, thin and well-groomed, was currently a sight that would have sent his mother into fits.
Fronto’s influence was clear to those around him these days. His tone had matured as he deliberately fought to keep his mannerisms military and forthright, where his family had always taught him to hold himself as an orator. He now moved with the deliberate and powerful certainty of a soldier. But mostly, the change was clear in his appearance.
The bronze cuirass, embossed with the head of medusa, now carried more than a dozen dents, one of which had actually punctured the metal. Some of the leather pteruges hanging from his shoulders and belt were missing or cleaved off half-way. His tunic was smeared and dirty and one sleeve hung raggedly down, his sword and shield bore the rents, dents and viscera of a warrior in the fiercest of battles.
And the men around him cheered as he passed; a commander so close to, and beloved of, his men that Crispus could do no wrong. He grinned at a centurion as he pushed past.
“Just like harvest, eh, Publius?”
The centurion laughed.
“Reapin’ time, sir…”
Crispus continued on, his eyes fixed on the crimson plume among the helmets ahead.
“Balbus?” he called, and the heavy-set legate of the Eighth turned toward him as he raised his shield to ward off a blow. The older officer, himself involved in the front line of combat, noted the approach of his peer from the Eleventh and pulled back from the worst of the fighting, allowing the line around him to close up.
A moment later, the two officers had retreated from the men desperately defending the low, partially-constructed rampart against the tremendous force that had swept down the hill and across the river. Even though that central army was the largest concentration of the enemy on the field, Crispus could see the reserves of the Belgae waiting on the north bank to see where they were needed.
“It would appear that these barbarians will not break, unlike the Belgae we’ve faced before.”
Balbus nodded.
“They’re a hardy lot and I think we’ll have to kill the lot of them. There’ll be no surrender.” He sighed. “My main worry is that this could go either way. There’s a lot more of them than us, but we’ve got experience, equipment and formation. It’s worryingly possible that we’ll all just keep hacking at each other til there’s nobody left on either side.”
Crispus nodded.
“We’ve got to do something. We have to turn the tide and start pushing them back rather that just holding them off.”
Balbus shrugged.
“There’s precious little hope of that. The Twelfth are pinned down and unlikely to hold unless the reserves arrive, and we’re facing a large force, with another behind it. Even Rufus and Fronto are too beleaguered to do anything.”
The younger legate shook his head thoughtfully.
“Not necessarily. That’s why I pulled out of the line and came to find you. I’ve been scanning their ranks and I noticed the standards.”
“What about them?” Balbus asked, intrigued.
“Those facing us are not Nervian ones, but the wolf standards of the Viromandui.”
“How in the name of Minerva do you know that?”
Crispus shrugged.
“I spent some time with the Remi auxiliary officers early in the campaign, talking to them about their countrymen. It seemed wise.”
“Alright, so we’re facing the Viromandui then.”
“Mostly, though there are, I believe, Nervii supporting them; and the reserve across the river are Nervii. I don’t know what tribes Fronto and the others are facing, but that’s not my point.”
“Then what is?” Even Balbus, a tremendously patient man, was beginning to become tetchy with the loquacious young legate.
“Well, my friend, as our centurions wear crests for identification and are accompanied by the signifers, the Belgae leaders wear gold and armour and tend to be found around their own standards.”
Balbus frowned.
“So we know where their leaders are, then.”
Crispus smiled.
“And if we know where their leaders are and we can manage to get to them, there’s a possibility that we can break the spirit of the tribe.”
Balbus’ face split slowly into a wide grin.
“The Twelfth can’t do much with that information, but we have to tell that to Fronto and Rufus. Come on.”
The two legates almost ran across the empty interior of the camp toward the Ninth and Tenth, who were deeply embroiled in combat.
* * * * *
Varus stared down the slope at the horrible events unfolding across the water. The legions were clearly in trouble. As he watched, he saw a unit pull away from the flank and run to aid the baggage train that had suddenly come under attack. He growled and looked around himself. He and the thirty six surviving cavalrymen on this side of the Belgae’s barrier had rushed to the wooded edge of the slope during the initial confusion and hidden themselves from the view of the enemy.
Thousands of Belgae lay between them and the river, let alone the legions beyond. There were still thousands of cavalry beyond the hill where they had charged blindly, but the part of the Belgic reserves that had formed the fence from the spiked barriers were now manning it with long spears to prevent Varus’ men from rejoining the battle.
He couldn’t see what was going on, but he knew his officers. By now the alae would have reformed out of sight over that hill and would be moving either east or west along the river to find a way to bypass the reserves, cross the river, and rejoin the battle.
But in the meantime, that left thirty seven horsemen in a perilous position, hidden from the view of the enemy reserves and cut off from their compatriots. He ground his teeth and nudged the trooper next to him.
“Did you see that?”
“Sir?”
Varus pointed at the far side of the battlefield.
“Those men who attacked the wagons and got driven back? Most of them rejoined their nearest group, but a few fled into the woods.”
“I didn’t see sir. But they’ll eventually get caught. Even hiding in the woods.” The man sighed. “Unless we lose, of course…”
Varus grunted.
“This is the narrowest and shallowest stretch of the river for miles, yes?”
The man nodded. “That’s what I heard, sir.”
“Think we can find another way across?”
The trooper looked unsure. “Who knows, sir? But we could have a look? Better than sitting here and waiting for them to see us.”
Varus nodded. That was certainly true. They were hidden here, but for how long?
“Pick a direction. Upstream or down?”
The trooper shrugged.
“Down, I guess, sir. That way, if we can get across, we might be able to find those runaways you saw.”
“Then downstream it is.” Varus turned and addressed the assembled riders in tones just loud enough to hear but quiet enough to not provoke the interest of the Belgic reserves.
“Alright lads. We’re going to pick our way through these woods. I know it’ll be tough, but if the Belgae can hide great log contraptions in there, there’s likely room for us to work our way through. And once we reach the far side, we’re going to descend the slope to the water’s edge and head downstream until we can find a way to cross.
There was a silent chorus of nods. None of the men wanted to wait in the eaves of the wood to be spotted by wandering barbarians. As quietly as possible, the three dozen cavalrymen began to step their mounts through the woodl
and.
The trees were well spaced and the undergrowth almost entirely removed or trampled down by the Belgae. The going was surprisingly easy, as long as they kept their heads down and watched where they walked.
The journey seemed to last forever, each man holding his silence and most holding their breath. Gradually the sounds of desperate battle faded with distance and the dampening effects of the trees, until Varus decided they’d travelled far enough west and turned to move down the slope. All was eerily quiet, save the whispering of the leaves and the rustling of the occasional creature.
The trooper behind Varus risked speaking in a low voice.
“What do we do if we break cover and they’re there waiting for us, sir?”
Varus shrugged.
“We fight like madmen, and we die like Romans.”
The gradient gradually increased as they descended and slowly the trees began to thin out until finally Varus stepped his horse out onto open turf and looked up to the blue sky. Behind him the other troopers quickly and quietly left the woodland, dropping down towards the water.
The commander frowned as they approached the barrier and he examined the river with an eye to its crossing. It was deeper and faster here; that was clear from one look at its dark, glassy surface. But it was also too wide to jump. They would have to find another place further downstream to try.
He scanned the riverbank, but further ahead the woods came down to the water’s edge and barred the path to cavalry. He growled. No way forward and no point in sneaking back up through the woods to where they had been trapped in the first place. They’d have to make their way slowly back along the water’s edge toward the battle and hope they could find a crossing point before they ran into the Belgic reserves.
Today was turning out to be a very bad day. Maybe Fronto was right, placing his faith in Nemesis, rather than Fortuna.
Chapter 16
The Belgae Page 32